


Confessions of a Pariah

by ptrckstmp



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Hatred, ahhhh if anything else needs to be tagged let me know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:56:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptrckstmp/pseuds/ptrckstmp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"we were supposed to be best friends."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> okay so the first chapter was originally a oneshot tumblr prompt I did but Michelle encouraged me to continue it and gave me some great ideas so huge shout out to her honestly.

Pete blinked his eyes open groggily, trying to figure out why he was awake, and where that sound was coming from. As the fog faded from his head he realized he had woken up to the sound of his phone vibrating. He reached over to his bedside table and picked it up. Travie’s face and phone number lit up the screen, but then the call went to voice mail and the screen went dark again. Pete sat up, groaning, and reached over to turn on his lamp. He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. It read 3:27 am.

He unplugged his phone from the charger, unlocked it, and quickly dialed Travie’s number again. It only rang two times before he picked up.

“Pete man! Hey, sorry to wake you up, but a friend needs help and I didn’t know who else to call.” His voice came through the phone, sounding tinny and washed out. Pete could hear the thump of a heavy bass line in the background.

“It’s cool dude. Who needs help?” Pete rubbed his free hand over his face groggily, trying to rub away the remnants of sleep that were still there. Travie hesitated, and Pete’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Travie?” Pete said again when the silence became awkward.

“It’s Patrick.” Travie said with a sigh. “He’s super drunk, man, and he got in a fight and needs to go home, or maybe to the hospital, but I gotta take care of Beckett and Saporta, who are also both drunk off their asses. I’ve got my hands full, and you’re the closet friend to me geographically who’s still sober. I’m sorry to wake you up like this, I really am.”

Pete swung his feet out of bed and planted them on the floor, trying to absorb what Travie had said through his sleep muddled brain. 

“Uh, yeah, no problem. Just text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He finally said.

“Thank you so much, man. I gotta go, I’ll text you.” And with that, the line went dead.

A heavy weight settled in Pete’s chest at the thought of seeing Patrick again. If he was lucky, maybe Patrick would be so drunk that he wouldn’t remember Pete in the morning. If he was lucky, maybe he would remember.

He pushed the sheets off his lap and stood up. He stooped down and picked up yesterday’s shirt off the floor, giving it a quick sniff before pulling it on. After wiggling into a pair of jeans and grabbing the jacket hanging off the hook on the back of his bedroom door he looked at his phone. Travie had texted him the address of the bar, and Pete texted back that he could be there in 10.

He shivered as he stepped into the chilly February air. The drowsiness had faded and now Pete just felt on edge and anxious, worried about Patrick, and, selfishly, worried about himself having to see Patrick again.

When he pulled up in front of the bar he was surprised to see Patrick sitting on the curb with another person, someone Pete didn’t recognize. He parked the car in front of them and stepped out, not bothering to turn the car off.

“You Pete?” the stranger asked, looking up at Pete, but not standing, since Patrick seemed to be passed out against his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Pete said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets to protect them from the cold. “I’m here to pick up Patrick.”

“I’m Travie’s friend. He told me you’d be coming. Help me get him up and into your car?” the stranger said. Pete just nodded, then went to Patrick’s other side and grabbed under his arm. Together they were able to drag Patrick’s dead weight into the passenger seat of Pete’s car, and Pete buckled him in, trying not to gag at the heavy stench of alcohol coming off of Patrick.

Pete then turned around to the Travie’s friend. “Thanks for your help.” He said. The other man just nodded, then turned around and went back into the bar. Pete slid back into the driver’s seat, then looked over at Patrick. He seemed to be completely unconscious, and he had a few purple bruises forming on his face, and blood smeared across his forehead and under his nose. 

It had occurred to him that he wasn’t even sure where Patrick was living at the moment, and that he’d have to spend the night on Pete’s couch. Pete sighed, then put the car back in drive and headed back to his house. So much for Patrick not remembering him the next morning.

Patrick was awake by the time Pete pulled the car into his driveway. “Wha’s happening?” he mumbled, fumbling with his seat belt. Pete reached over and unbuckled it for him. Patrick swung the door of the car open and tumbled out onto the driveway. Pete sighed as he got out of the car and circled around to where Patrick was, on his hands and knees, forehead pressed against the concrete. “Hurts.” he moaned softly.

Pete pulled him up under his armpits and circled his arm around the younger man’s waist, keeping him upright. Patrick leaned on him, basically a deadweight, and together they managed to stumble into Pete’s house and up the stairs to the bathroom, making only one pitstop on the front porch so that Patrick could vomit into the flower pot.

Pete sat Patrick on the toilet, then went into the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit. When he returned Patrick was sobbing, one hand covering his eyes, and blood was dripping steadily from his nose again.

Pete’s heart broke. He’d never seen Patrick cry before. He’d seen him when he was angry, so angry that he was ready to put his fist through a wall, or Pete’s face, whichever was closest, and he’d seen him heartbroken and mopey, those were the times when Pete would come over and they’d play video games in the basement all day, but he’d never seen him honest-to-god cry. And it broke his heart.

In that moment Patrick looked so small, a little heap of chaos in Pete’s unusually clean bathroom, sloppy in all the ways Patrick usually wasn’t and Pete usually was, covered in blood and alcohol and vomit and regret and looking so damn broken.

“Patrick.” Pete said, putting the box of band-aids and the tube of Neosporin on the bathroom counter. He knelt down in front of the other man and reached for the hand that was resting on his knee. “Patrick, what’s the matter?”

Patrick let out a sob and Pete could hear him struggling to take a deep enough breath back in through all the blood that was running down his throat due to the nosebleed. 

“We were supposed to be best friends.” Patrick finally choked out. It felt like all the breath had been knocked out of Pete. What was he supposed to say to that? “We still are.”? He wasn’t sure they were.

“Yeah.” He breathed out. And in that moment he missed it so much more acutely than he had in a long time–he missed sleeping in the same bed curled around one another, he missed sitting in between the rows of bunks at 3 in the morning, giggling with each other and trying not to wake the others, he missed Patrick knowing when he was anxious and calming him with the touch of his hand, missed Patrick’s smile when Pete would bring him his coffee in the morning, missed being with him and being a part of him, and missed everything that they had had when Pete would have said, without a doubt, that Patrick Stump was his best friend. He wanted to say the same thing now, but things had ended so badly, and they hadn’t seen each other in years…

Patrick wrenched his hand from Pete’s, and leaned his head into his hands, elbows on his knees. Blood was dripping onto his jeans, and onto Pete’s bathroom floor, but he didn’t care.

“We were supposed to be best friends and I left you,” Patrick sobbed, “and you still came to help me. Why did you do that? Why are you so goddamn good Pete Wentz? I don’t deserve you, I never did.” His words were slurred, and interrupted by small hiccups, and his voice was nasally. Pete didn’t know how to respond.

“Patrick.” He breathed out. “You’ve got it backwards…”

“No.” Patrick lifted his head from his hands. “I just left you. You got fuckin’ divorced and I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the phone. I’m a shitty friend. No one deserves me, least of all you. I just hoped that maybe if I never called, you’d never have to see me again, and you could find better friends who would treat you right, but then you had to come and pick me up from that shitty club and act like nothing’s changed and I don’t know–” he broke off into sobs again, his whole body shaking with them.

Pete just stood up and wetted a washcloth under some warm water. He wiped the blood from Patrick’s face, and put Neosporin on his cuts, and helped him stumble out of his too-tight skinny jeans and into a pair of sweats, and he led him to the bed, and tucked the blanket under his chin, and watched as he fell unconscious again.

Maybe in the morning they could talk about being friends again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, i didn't reread this before i posted so if there's any errors let me know :)

When Pete woke up the next morning the house seemed unusually quiet. The house was always quiet, because Pete lived alone, but this morning it seemed purposefully so. He sat up and stretched his back, which was a little bit sore from spending the night on the couch.

“Patrick?” he called out hesitantly. He stood up and walked down the hall to his bedroom. He pushed the door open, expecting to see an unconscious, hungover Patrick, but was instead met with the sight of his empty, neatly made bed. He stuck his head back out into the hallway and glanced at the bathroom door, wondering if maybe Patrick was in there, but the door was wide open and the light was off.

“Patrick? You still here buddy?” he yelled. There was no reply.

Pete sighed and walked over to his bed. The pills he had left for Patrick on the bedside table were gone, and the glass of water that he had set next to them was empty. There was a little piece of paper under the glass and Pete pulled it out.

_Pete-_  
_I’m sorry for ruining your night and taking your bed. Thanks for the help._  
_-Patrick Stump_

Pete ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a sigh. He trudged back into the living room and retrieved his phone from the floor. He scrolled through his contacts until he found one that he was looking for.

_Pete: hey rick, did you make it home safely?_

He stared at his phone for a few minutes, anxiously awaiting a response. When none came he typed out another message.

_Pete: i know we havent talked in a while, but i just wanted to let you know that im still here for you. lets get together and catch up sometime._

Yesterday morning if someone had asked him what he thought about Patrick Stump, Pete would have replied that Patrick was a terrible friend and a selfish bastard. He would have let them know how badly Patrick had let him down, how desperately he had wanted Patrick’s companionship over the past two years, especially during his divorce with Ashlee, and how Patrick hadn’t contacted him since the band broke up. Not once.

But Pete was now realizing that maybe he had held the younger boy up to unfair standards for their entire relationship. He had always expected Patrick to be there for him, to be the one to make sure he didn’t hurt himself during his manic episodes, to sing him to sleep during his bouts of insomnia, to comfort him when he was feeling depressed. Patrick had been Pete’s “golden boy”, but Pete had never stopped to think about how Patrick felt. About anything really.

Two years and Pete hadn’t picked up the phone either. Hadn’t ever called to see how Patrick was doing, or congratulate him on the release of his album. Just like always Pete had only been thinking of himself.

Pete checked his phone obsessively the whole day, anxiously waiting for some response from Patrick, wanting to make sure that he had got home alright and that he wasn’t hungover in some alleyway. When dinner time rolled around and he still hadn’t heard anything, he called Patrick’s cell. It rang three times and went to voicemail.

_"This is Patrick’s phone. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you."_

“Uh, hey Rick, this is Pete. I’m really worried about you, could you just shoot me a text or something letting me know you’re alright? Um, anyway, hope to hear from you soon.”

He went to bed that night feeling anxious and on edge and feeling resolved to rekindle his relationship with Patrick.

He woke up the next morning feeling sluggish. When he unlocked his phone and still found no messages from Patrick he knew he was going to have to contact him a different way.

“Hey Pete, what’s up?” Travie answered his phone, sounding much more awake than Pete felt.

“Hey Trav. Um, I was wondering if you’d heard from Patrick since the other night?” Pete asked, voice gravelly from sleep still.

“Nah, I haven’t. Why do you ask? Is everything okay?”

“I’m not sure. I brought him back to my place to crash and when I woke up he was gone. He won’t answer my texts or anything, I’m kinda worried.” Pete confessed.

“I can go check up on him this afternoon, make sure he got home alright.” Travie said. “Sometimes he just drops off the radar for a bit, but he’s usually fine. I’ll be out his way anyway though so I’ll just pop in.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks Travie.” Pete said, feeling a little bit relieved. He paused for a bit, then changed his mind. “Actually, could you text me his address? I can go check on him. I have some stuff I want to talk to him about anyway.”

“Yeah sure. You be careful with him though, alright? He’s not in the best place, mentally, right now and I know things are tense between you two.” Travie sounded hesitant.

“Shit Travie, I’m his best friend, I’m not gonna do anything to hurt him.” As soon as the words ‘best friend’ were out of Pete’s mouth he was surprised he had said them. Travie didn’t react at all though.

“I’ll text you the address. I gotta blast, but good luck with everything.”

“Thanks Travie.”

Three hours later Pete was standing in front of apartment A5. He double checked the text Travie had sent him to make sure he was in the right place before hesitantly knocking on the door. He waited a few seconds, and then when he didn’t hear anyone moving inside the apartment, he knocked again, a little harder this time. Finally he heard the shuffling of feet and the door swung open to reveal a disheveled, sleepy looking Patrick.

“Shit Patrick, what happened to your face? It looks worse than the last time I saw you.” Pete said in lieu of a greeting.

“Pete?” Patrick squinted up at him. “What the hell?”

“Here Patrick, let’s clean you up.” Pete moved to step into the apartment, and Patrick moved aside so he could, still looking dazed.

Pete looked around at the little apartment. The blinds were closed, making the apartment dark even though it was the middle of the day. There was an empty pizza box on the floor, and more than a few beer cans lying around. Dishes were piled up in the sink, and it smelled like B.O. and old food and alcohol and regret.

“Pete, you should leave.” Patrick finally said, words slurring a little.

“Are you drunk?” Pete turned to face him again. Patrick shrugged his shoulders.

“Prolly a lil’ bit still from last night. I’ll jus’ sleep it off, it’s fine.” He opened the door again, gesturing for Pete to leave. Pete shook his head.

“I’m not going until you let me take a look at your face. What happened, another bar fight?” Pete gently led him over to a kitchen chair and Patrick sat down, too hungover to fight against it apparently. Patrick shrugged again.

Pete flicked on the kitchen light and Patrick groaned and shut his eyes. Well, eye. One of them was already swollen shut. Pete examined the damage. The bruises from the other night were fading into green around the edges, but there was a new purple/black one surrounding his swollen right eye, and a cut that was bleeding sluggishly on his left eyebrow.

“This cut probably needed stitches.” Pete commented, leaning in to examine it closer. “But it’s too late for that now. Have any butterfly bandages?” Patrick nodded, eyes still shut, and pointed at the cabinet above the sink. Pete pulled it open and pushed aside pill bottles until he found a little plastic box neatly labeled “band-aids”. He picked out the one he needed, as well as a little tube of Neosporin. Patrick winced as Pete applied the ointment and put the bandage on, but otherwise didn’t react. Pete used a wet paper towel to wipe the dried blood off his face, then went to the freezer to find something for Patrick’s eye. Patrick held the bag of peas to his eye while Pete found ibuprofen, and then swallowed the pills down obediently.

“Alright, let’s get you back to bed to sleep the alcohol out buddy.” Pete followed as Patrick shuffled down the hallway back into his bedroom and crawled into bed, bag of peas still against his face. Pete looked around the bedroom, which was covered in dirty clothes and dirty dishes and smelled slightly of mold. Pete wrinkled his nose, but didn’t comment.

“Sleep tight Rick, I’ll still be here when you wake up.” Pete said, softly closing the bedroom door.

The first thing Pete did when he got back to the living room was open the blinds. He wished he could open the windows too, to get some fresh air in, but it was freezing outside, so he settled for opening the door to the apartment, letting the warm hair from the hallway waft in.

The next thing he did was grab a trash bag and start to throw away all the beer cans and wine bottles.

By the time Patrick stumbled out of the bedroom again 4 hours later Pete had managed to breath some life back into the apartment. The dishes were washed, the floor was vacuumed (Pete had known Patrick long enough to know that he could sleep through almost anything), and the cupboards were restocked. Patrick blinked blearily, looking confused and amazed at his clean apartment. Pete beamed.

“Do you like it?” He asked enthusiastically. Patrick turned to look at him.

“Pete you need to leave.” He said simply. Pete recoiled a little in shock.

“Patrick…” he started.

“I said get out. I don’t need your pity, and you don’t need to waste your time helping me.” The words were vicious, but Patrick just sounded tired.

“Patrick, I’m your friend, I’m not wasting my time. That’s what friends do for each other is help each other.” Pete countered. Patrick huffed out a cynical laugh.

“Please just go.”

“Can we at least talk about this? I’m really worried about you.” Pete stepped towards Patrick, reaching a hand out towards him. Patrick stepped away from him.

“Yeah, everyone is worried about me. Brendon says I need to stop drinking, but Travie says I need to go out more. My mom keeps calling and asking if I’m alright, and Elisa keeps trying to call me and maybe I’m not okay but maybe I deserve that.” He spit out. “I don’t want to bring you down with me Pete. Travie should’ve never called you the other night, he should’ve just let you live your life without me. No one wants to be friends with the alcoholic, depressed, 27 year old has-been! I hate waking up every morning knowing I’m disappointing so many people. I hate feeling like the awkward adult husk of a discarded once-cute child actor. It’s like I’ve received some big cosmic sign that I should just disappear. So I disappeared. Please just let me disappear.” Patrick wiped his wet cheeks off with the back of his hand. Pete’s heart broke for the second time in two days.

“Patrick…” He stuttered out, unsure of how to respond to the younger man who just bared his heart to him.

“Pete if you care about me at all you’d just leave.” Patrick’s voice was broken, like he was trying to hold back sobs. “Please please please please.” He repeated the word like a mantra.

Pete stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around his friend’s smaller form. That was all it took for Patrick to break, and he sobbed into Pete’s chest, his arms circling around to cling onto Pete and his fingers twisting in the fabric of Pete’s shirt. Patrick’s body started shaking with the force of the sobs, and Pete just held on tighter until Patrick’s crying finally slowed, and he was left gasping for air against Pete’s now-damp shirt.

“I am so so so sorry.” Patrick mumbled. “I am so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize, it’s okay.” Pete murmured into his ear, bringing his hand up to run it through Patrick’s bleached-blond and fairly greasy hair. “It’s been a long day for you, how about you go shower and get into pajamas and I’ll make us some food.” Patrick nodded against Pete’s chest.

By the time Patrick was out of the shower Pete had managed to make some macaroni and cheese, and he set handed a bowl to Patrick before sitting down on the couch with his own bowl and turning on the TV. Patrick sat next to him and they ate in silence for a little while, the only noises coming from HGTV.

“Thank you Pete.” Patrick finally said. “I’m a mess, and I totally ignored you for years and I still can’t believe you would help me out like you did today.” he mumbled.

“Hey, I know what it’s like to be a mess. You were there for me for 8 years before the band went on a break and you were always there for me even when I was being stupid and reckless and trying to push you away. It’s what best friends do for each other.” He smiled.

Patrick hesitated. “So what, are we best friends again now?”

“I always was, Patrick. I’ll be your best whatever you want me to be.”

Patrick leaned over and pressed a kiss to Pete’s cheek.

“I think I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be a pal, leave a comment


End file.
